Poem for My Father’s Voice

Visiting my parents in Watertown this week, after my father’s return from a recent hospitalization, reminded of me of this poem I wrote many years ago. Thought it was a good moment to pull it from the archive.

Poem for My Father’s Voice

“Show me,” I’d say, “show meexactly where in the Bibleit says that dancing is a sin.”He wouldn’t argue, and even ifI made it to school dances,my body was lead; I couldn’t movehearing his long silence.I never gave up, though; I’d worryhim like a dog worries a squirrelup a tree, going crazy for wantinga fight. When I was in college,I’d take Vermont Transit homeand cross Harvard Yard to meet himat the store; he peeled off the redapron and white coat, ran upstairsto punch out on the clock, andon the ride home, we’d talk.His favorite topic was the weather,until it became a joke between us,like the popsicle-stick cathedralshe wanted to build when he retireduntil I embarrassed him out of it.I imagined him gluing and placing sticksfor hours at the table, lookinglike an overgrown camper.

Years away from home sanded the edgesoff anger; on our rides to and fromthe airport or the train, he talked,and now I didn’t know what to say.He told me his whole life had beena waste, except for my mother.Another time he said, “When I getto heaven, God will make me perfect,and I won’t be stupid any more.”His father had called him“mentally bankrupt” when he wasa kid working at the family market,driving deliveries at ten, the copskept off with bribes of meat andbutter. “It was during the war,”he told me, “meat was scarce.”

The last time I came to town, heexplained the doctor wanted to takea vein from his leg. When he standsat the block, my father works the knifein his right hand, leans intothe left leg, and now bloodseeps through the vein makingbrown patches under the skinnear the ankle. He pulled uphis pant-leg and rolled down the sock.He said, “It makes me think of my father.They took his foot, his calf, thenthe leg, and I know it’s not the same,but I can’t help thinking of it.”

I imagine the dreams at night,his father’s lost leg hoveringnear the ceiling, and his mother’sheart, so small and tight, movedinto his body. Her pills are now his,nitro-glycerin under the pillowof the tongue. I remember timeswhen I yelled at him, “I hate you,you’re so stupid.” I liked the soundof my voice tearing into him, andwanted to bury him with words. He’d say,“Shut up. Do you hear me? Shut up.”

Originally published in RIVER STYX Literary Magazine, Number 32, Fall 1990